


after the storm

by windfalling



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 04:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfalling/pseuds/windfalling
Summary: Ten months, Reddington had said, and she’d refused to believe it at first. Now, she feels the truth of it down to her bones.Liz comes to terms with everything she's lost.





	after the storm

**Author's Note:**

> so I know that there's probably a whole bunch of post-5.08 fic written and everyone has their own version of this, and I'd debated whether or not to finish this after the 5.09 promo came out, but... in the end, I decided to post my version before canon officially destroys it. that being said, this fic is less canon-compliant and more... canon- _adjacent_ , as in: the suitcase/dna test is out, and while I can't handwave away the entirety of tom's existence for this, he's kept to the background and is only mentioned thrice. 
> 
> title is after the song by mumford & sons, which I listened to while writing much of this. as always, I'm open to discussion of any issues or criticism.

 

 I.

 

At the end of her first day at the cabin, she makes a call.

_“Elizabeth?”_

It takes everything in her not to flinch at the sound of her name. Her hand twitches, fingers curling inward to trace the edge of her scar, a reminder she cannot escape.

“I’m safe,” Liz says, and hangs up.

 

 

 

 

The first time she’d been able to walk more than ten feet without falling, she kept walking, and walking, and walking, right past all the medical equipment, until she reached the front door of the small home Reddington had hid her in. She’d half-expected someone to stop her—the guard at the door, or even the nurse.

The guard had moved aside. Her nurse hovered nearby, arms half-outstretched, as if to catch her if she fell.

She’d stepped out to the front porch and tipped her head up to the sun. Felt the heat of it press into her skin, despite the bite of the autumn wind.

She made the deal with Reddington the next day.

 

 

 

 

_No_ _trackers_ _._ _No_ _chips_ _._ _No_ _one_ _following_ _me_ _,_ _watching_ _me_ _._ Those were her terms. He’d resisted, as Liz knew he would. Those first few weeks after she’d woken up, he would walk through the door with this subtle tension in this body that would release every time he saw her, as if he’d kept bracing himself for the worst each time. 

He’d made this place into a safe home, a sanctuary for her to recover in. But it didn’t take long for her to grow sick of it, to feel trapped within its walls. Maybe she couldn’t escape her own skin, but she could leave, and walk away, and not be surrounded with the reminder of everything she’s lost. 

Reddington had looked at her with a raw transparency of emotion that he’d never quite lost since that moment she’d first woken up. He’d said, _I_ _understand_ _,_ _Elizabeth_ _,_ _I_ _do_ _,_ _and_ _I_ _would_ _never_ _…_ _keep_ _you_ _here_ _,_ _against_ _your_ _will_ _._ _But_ _I_ _cannot_ _lose_ _you_ _a_ _third_ _time_ _._ _I_ _need_ _to_ _know_ _—_ _I_ _would_ _like_ _to_ _know_ _—_ _that_ _you_ _’_ _re_ _safe_ _._

Her compromise, then: a phone call. The same time every night.

She’d reached out and touched his face and said _please_ , and she’d felt him sigh and fold, resignation pressing his mouth into a thin line. He never spoke of what he went through after he thought she’d died the first time—after she’d left. But she’d heard pieces here and there, throwaway comments that Dembe had (purposely, she thinks) let slip. He would not deny her this.

He gave her the fake ID and the keys to the cabin a few days later, and she left a week after that.

 

 

 

 

At the cabin, she boards up the windows, triple-locks the doors, moving furniture around so she can see exits and entrances, holding her breath and peeking around corners even when she hasn’t left the cottage for days, even when she knows she’s alone. There’s a crawling fear that never quite leaves her skin. _I_ _’_ _m_ _safe_ _,_ she tells Reddington, but her handgun is never far from reach.

 

 

 

 

II.

 

She goes by Jane Miller now. Reddington had suggested other names, and it had almost felt like old times, going back and forth with the aliases. (She’d had to shut down his suggestion to revisit her time as _Ginger_.) She’s had enough of being Elizabeth Keen, or Masha Rostova. Jane is comfortably unfamiliar and easy to wear.

Jane is not a widow. She does not have a dead husband. She is not the daughter of a Russian agent. She is not a mother.

 

 

 

 

Her memory had come back in fragments. Even now, she struggles to remember those first few days. _An_ _absolute_ _rejection_ _,_ someone had said, one of the doctors, maybe, who made her count backwards in sevens and asked her to repeat certain words and answer questions to a test she was certain she was failing. _Tom_ _is_ _dead_ , that one didn’t take long to sink in, once she remembered the men at their apartment, the knife in his gut, the blood drenching his clothes even as he tried to fight back. But the ten months she’d lost—that one had taken multiple tries. The breaking point, she thinks, was seeing the girl they called her daughter, seeing _Agnes_ , for the first time.

Part of her had recognised the curve of her daughter’s eyes, the turn of her nose. But so much was different, too—this child was undeniably _older_ , no longer the baby girl she knew and searched for.

The panic she’d tried so desperately to keep at bay had spiked to a violent peak. All she knows of what followed is that Dembe had left quickly with the girl, and the nurse had rushed in, and there had been something in their hands, something they were offering that Reddington had sharply refused, and then it was just his arms around her, his voice in her ear, murmuring apologies and _it_ _’_ _s_ _okay_ and _I_ _’_ _m_ _here_.

She hasn’t seen Agnes since.

 

 

 

 

On the third day, she finds an envelope with a flash drive inside it and a note that simply reads: _When_ _you_ _’_ _re_ _ready_ _._

It’s filled with folders divided by month, and inside them, pictures and videos of Agnes—one for every single day she’s missed.

_I_ _left_ _her_ _behind_ _._

The room starts to spin. She slams the laptop shut and bends forward to put her head between her knees, the thought of her daughter something jagged in her chest that makes it hard to breathe, to think, to do anything. Agnes is alive, she knows this is true, but she’s missed so much, and her baby girl is gone, this one isn’t the same, she isn’t—

 

 

 

 

_Did_ _you_ _kill_ _them_ _?_

She’d looked at him, at the set of his jaw, those eyes hard with that lingering cold fury that she’d seen so many times, and found her answer there.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, Liz thinks that she died that night in their apartment. She died and she never came back.

 

 

 

 

III.

 

What once would have been an easy run turns into a brutal, punishing marathon. The muscles in her legs burn and twinge in protest as she pushes herself forward, her breath coming in ragged white puffs in the frigid air, until she can’t feel the pain, until she can’t feel the cold, until her mind and body go silent and numb.

Ten months, Reddington had said, and she’d refused to believe it at first. Now, she feels the truth of it down to her bones.

 

 

 

 

The nightmares aren’t new, just different. She relives that night a thousand times over. But sometimes, she dreams of a voice in the darkness, _Reddington_ _’_ _s_ voice, telling her all these stories as if he were reading from a book, some of them with familiar names, as if they weren’t stories at all.

_Agnes_ _waved_ _at_ _me_ _for_ _the_ _first_ _time_ _today_ _,_ _Lizzy_ _,_ _I_ _tried_ _to_ _catch_ _it_ _on_ _camera_ _,_ _and_ _—_ _well_ _,_ _let_ _’_ _s_ _just_ _say_ _that_ _I_ _’_ _ve_ _decided_ _to_ _let_ _Dembe_ _take_ _over_ _the_ _videotaping_ _part_ _—_

_Now_ _,_ _I_ _don_ _’_ _t_ _want_ _you_ _to_ _worry_ _,_ _Lizzy_ _,_ _but_ _Agnes_ _spiked_ _a_ _low_ _fever_ _this_ _morning_ _,_ _we_ _’_ _ve_ _taken_ _her_ _to_ _see_ _a_ _pediatrician_ _and_ _she_ _’_ _s_ _doing_ _much_ _better_ _now_ _,_ _we_ _’_ _re_ _all_ _looking_ _after_ _her_ _._ _She_ _misses_ _you_ _._ _I_ _—_ _we_ _—_ _miss_ _you_ _._

_Today_ _marks_ _the_ _hundredth_ _day_ _,_ _Lizzy_ _._ _A_ _hundred_ _days_ _since_ _you_ _’_ _ve_ _—_

_Your_ _doctor_ _said_ _that_ _it_ _was_ _up_ _to_ _you_ _,_ _now_ _._ _That_ _you_ _had_ _a_ _choice_ _to_ _make_ _._ _I_ _know_ _you_ _’_ _re_ _still_ _in_ _there_ _._ _Come_ _back_ _,_ _Lizzy_ _._ _Please_ _._ _For_ _Agnes_ _,_ _at_ _least_ _,_ _if_ _not_ _—_

 

 

 

 

She still can’t say it aloud. It should be easy, she thinks. _My_ _name_ _is_ _Elizabeth_ _Keen_ _._ _I_ _was_ _in_ _a_ _coma_ _._ _Tom_ _is_ _dead_ _._ But she can’t do it without shaking so violently that she feels splintered apart, like her body isn’t her own, and it takes her a long time to come back from those. 

At least she can look in the mirror, now. It’s not much. But it’s a start.

 

 

 

 

IV.

 

On the eighth day, she goes into town and buys the shittiest wine she can find. No one looks twice at her. She hands the cashier her ID and he barely glances at it. Here, she is not even _Jane_ _Miller_ —she is no one, she is nothing. This anonymity is a kind of freedom she rarely has, now. But it doesn’t feel as it should.

 

 

 

 

Liz drinks to forget, because running only works for so long, and she can’t run all the time. So she drinks all the shitty seven-dollar wine and gets absolutely trashed, and she can’t quite think straight, and in her more sober moments she thinks of the hangover she’ll have, but she’ll live to regret it in the morning.

The thing about drinking alone in a cabin in the middle of nowhere is that she gets so _bored_. There’s nothing to do except drink and cry and think about why she’s drinking and cry some more and she’s had enough of all that nonsense, really, she’s all dried out of tears by now, but she has to do _something_ —maybe take a walk? The sun has set at this point, and it’s near pitch-black out. No, that isn’t a good idea. She isn’t _that_ drunk.

Her laptop sits in her bag.

Her sore feet already itch to break into a run just looking at it. _Don_ _’_ _t_ _be_ _a_ _coward_ , she thinks, and turns it on before she can stop herself. The flash drive is still connected, all her missing time collected in one small tiny device. After a few clumsy clicks, she manages to open the correct folder.

She clicks on the earliest video. Ressler is holding her daughter, her daughter who looks exactly as she remembers, and he’s telling Agnes to wave hello. _“_ _It_ _is_ _…_ _the_ _25_ _th_ _of_ _November_ _,”_ Aram says, and she gets the impression that he’s the one behind the camera. _“_ _We_ _thought_ _we_ _would_ _continue_ _your_ _video_ _diary_ _,_ _just_ _until_ _—_ _until_ _you_ _wake_ _up_ _._ _We_ _all_ _miss_ _you_ _,_ _Liz_ _._ _But_ _don_ _’_ _t_ _worry_ _—_ _Agnes_ _is_ _in_ _good_ _hands_ _.”_

As if on cue, Agnes starts to cry, and the camera swivels to Samar, who reaches out to take Agnes from Ressler. _“_ _There_ _you_ _go_ _,”_ Samar says, smiling and rocking Agnes until she stops crying. _“_ _Clearly_ _,_ _she_ _likes_ _me_ _better_ _,”_ she adds, shooting a smirk in Ressler’s direction, who rolls his eyes. The camera lingers on Samar for a moment before abruptly focusing back on Agnes.

Everyone takes a turn waving and saying hello, and then it turns back to Aram again. _“_ _See_ _you_ _soon_ _,”_ he says, and he smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his red-rimmed eyes.

The video comes to end.

 

 

 

 

In the beginning, it had been easier to reach for her anger. But the men who attacked her are dead, and her rage had stumbled in its purpose, no direction to go but inward—at her weakened limbs, at her shaking hands, at the thousand _what_ _-_ _ifs_ and _if_ _-_ _onlys_ that circled like vultures in her head. After that, it had just been easier to just… close her eyes, and go away. (She remembers moments where Reddington’s voice would fade in the middle of one of his little anecdotes without her realising, and she’d find him staring at her. Searching her face.)

Now, she watches her missing year, her daughter growing older in front of her eyes. If there is any good in her life, it is Agnes, her baby girl, so full of uncomplicated light. 

_Come_ _back_ _,_ _Lizzy_ _._  

On her laptop, Liz watches her daughter fall asleep to a low, familiar voice humming a lullaby off-screen.

 

 

 

 

Her phone rings four hours later.

It’s two in the morning, and—shit. She’s missed her nightly check-in. Liz digs through her sheets, searching for wherever her phone’s been buried before finally finding it, then answering with a breathless, “I’m here, I’m okay.” 

Maybe it’s because it’s the first time she’s said anything other than her routine two-word response, or because she forgot to call and he’d assumed the worst, but Reddington doesn’t immediately respond.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call, I lost track of time. I was... I watched the videos.”

There’s a pause, and a brush of static over the phone, as if he were letting out a breath. _“_ _Yeah_ _?”_

“Not—not all of them. I’ve only made it through November and December.”

_“_ _It_ _was_ _Aram_ _’_ _s_ _idea_ _._ _He_ _remembered_ _the_ _video_ _diary_ _you_ _’_ _d_ _started_ _.”_ Reddington goes quiet for a moment. _“_ _I_ _know_ _you_ _weren_ _’_ _t_ _ready_ _,_ _then_ _._ _But_ _I_ _thought_ _…_ _just_ _in_ _case_ _you_ _wanted_ _to_ _look_ _at_ _them_ _._ _I_ _’_ _d_ _hoped_ _they_ _would_ _help_ _.”_

It surprises her, how good it feels to hear his voice. For the longest time, his was one of the only voices she’d heard, after waking. She hadn’t realised how much she missed it. How much she’s missed him.

She thinks of those days she spent during her recovery when she’d lashed out at him, the easiest target; when his compassion had grated on her nerves; when she couldn’t stand that _look_ he’d always give her, or how persistently gentle he was with her. No matter how irate she’d gotten, the glares she’d given him, the days she’d refused to see him at all—he always came back. He always stayed, whenever she let him. He never asked for more than she could give.

“No, it was perfect. Thank you.” Then she asks, “Did you talk to me? When I was… asleep?” 

He doesn’t give her a direct answer, of course. _“_ _An_ _acquaintance_ _of_ _mine_ _underwent_ _surgery_ _a_ _few_ _years_ _ago_ _._ _Benjamin_ _Howley_ _._ _Lovely_ _man_ _._ _Couldn_ _’_ _t_ _tell_ _a_ _lie_ _to_ _save_ _his_ _life_ _._ _Anyway_ _,_ _it_ _was_ _supposed_ _to_ _be_ _a_ _simple_ _operation_ _,_ _in_ _and_ _out_ _walking_ _the_ _same_ _day_ _._ _But_ _afterward_ _,_ _they_ _found_ _that_ _they_ _couldn_ _’_ _t_ _wake_ _him_ _up_ _._ _They_ _over_ _-_ _sedated_ _him_ _,_ _they_ _thought_ _,_ _or_ _maybe_ _something_ _went_ _wrong_ _._ _Before_ _they_ _sent_ _him_ _back_ _into_ _the_ _OR_ _,_ _they_ _decided_ _to_ _try_ _one_ _last_ _thing_ _._ _They_ _called_ _his_ _wife_ _in_ _._ _She_ _said_ _, ‘_ _Benny_ _,_ _wake_ _up_ _.’_ _Just_ _those_ _three_ _words_ _._ _And_ _he_ _did_ _.”_

She’d heard his voice countless times in her dreams. She pictures him holding her hand, brushing the hair from her face, calling her _Lizzy_ , waiting for the slightest twitch of her finger, or a flutter of her eyelids. She knows he spent most of his days at her bedside, this man who loves her, who waited so long for her to wake up. She knows that he’s still waiting.

_“_ _They_ _say_ _that_ _hearing_ _is_ _the_ _last_ _sense_ _to_ _go_ _._ _I_ _thought_ _…_ _if_ _there_ _was_ _the_ _slightest_ _chance_ _I_ _could_ _reach_ _you_ _…”_ He trails away, and she hears the weight of his guilt.

“You did,” she says at once. “You said that Agnes waved at you for the first time. You gossiped about Aram and Samar, too.” He chuckles quietly at this. “And… you called me _Lizzy_.”

Liz doesn’t remember the last time he’s called her that. At least, while she’s been awake. She must’ve told him not to, in one of the many arguments they’ve had over the past year. ( _Years_ , she corrects herself.) He would’ve never stopped otherwise.

Hesitantly, he says, _“_ _Does_ _it_ _bother_ _you_ _?”_

“No,” she says, her voice going soft in a way she can’t control. She imagines him sitting in his armchair by the fireplace, a glass of scotch in one hand, his phone pressed to his ear with the other. “I’ve missed it.”

He exhales. _“_ _Lizzy_ _,_ _I_ _—”_ he starts, and she waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

She hears his unspoken question nonetheless. “Soon,” she says, closing her eyes.

_“_ _All_ _right_ _.”_

“And—Red?”

“Yes?”

“Say hi to Agnes for me.”

 

 

 

 

V.

 

Her daughter lives in a small house just outside of the city, in a gated community with cameras everywhere and regular security patrols. It’s a quiet neighbourhood. Gives off that white picket fence, two kids and a dog, apple tree in the backyard kind of feeling. Liz has no doubt that Reddington’s run a background check on every single person here. (She would have called this overprotective and excessive, once. Now, she knows better. Every cell in her brands her as a criminal; nowhere she runs will ever be enough.)

Liz hadn’t been sure they would let her through the gate, at first. But she’d given the address, showed her ID, pulled down the window so they could see her face, stated her name without flinching, and they let her through.

It’s been ten days. More than a year now, all in all.

Liz doesn’t know how long she’s been standing in front of the door.

She takes a deep breath, and then knocks three times.

Reddington opens the door in less than a minute. It should be strange to see him here, but if anything, it’s familiar—like old times, when she would track him down to some strange apartment or neighbourhood, knowing he would be on the other side when she needed him.

The rigid line of his shoulder relaxes a fraction when he sees her, the relief plain on his face. He takes a step forward, half-reaching for her before he stops.

 Liz steps across the threshold and wraps her arms around him. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

He pulls back enough to look at her face, searching for something—and when she feels the rest of the tension leave his body, when she sees his face go all soft, and when he gives her the first genuine smile she’s seen from him in ages, she knows that he’s found it. 

“Welcome back.”

Something clatters to the ground in a room down the hall, followed by burbling laughter. The sound reverberates through her chest, and she inhales sharply. Reddington takes her hand in his, watching her with a slight tilt to his head, waiting.

Liz closes her eyes. Takes in a few deep breaths. Opens them again. “I’m ready,” she finally says, and lets Reddington be her guide.

She’s nervous. But it’s a good kind of nervous, Liz thinks. She’s going to see her daughter again.

 

 


End file.
